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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23806750">The Tiger from the West</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akiko_Natsuko/pseuds/Akiko_Natsuko'>Akiko_Natsuko</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Overwatch (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Betrayal, Blood and Injury, Character Death, Death, Discipline, Discovery, Dreams, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Family, Fate &amp; Destiny, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Promises, Recovery, The Last Samurai AU, War</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 01:00:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,864</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23806750</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akiko_Natsuko/pseuds/Akiko_Natsuko</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack Morrison was a broken man, haunted by the blood on his hands, the screams in his memories. A life and a war, lived and fought, for a reason he had long since forgotten. Seeking an escape from what fate had given him in the bottom of a bottle. But war was all he knew now, a path he couldn't leave, and now it was carrying him across the sea. To another war, another fight that wasn't his, and to a destiny he could never have expected.</p><p>Hanzo Shimada was a Samurai, one of the last of a dying breed, living for honour and the sword on the edge of a dying world. Waiting for destiny to unfold before him, in the eyes of blue-eyed tiger that haunted his thoughts.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hanzo Shimada/Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>‘You believe a man can change his destiny?”<br/>“I think a man does what he can until his destiny is revealed.’</p><p>-	The Last Samurai</p><p> </p><p>Please note that if you want to talk to me about my fics and writing, or anime/shows/games in general then you can now find me on discord  <a href="https://discord.gg/jdpcfy6XTB">The Unholy Trinity</a>.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>    Usually, it was the Dragons that brought their family warnings, a throwback to a different time, or maybe a last, fleeting glimpse of a world on the edge of disappearing. Hanzo didn’t wish to believe that it was the latter, but the evidence was all around him. In a world, where the word of a man, and the edge of his blade, no longer held the same worth. Where honour, and duty, words that had been drilled into him since childhood were losing all meaning beyond the boundaries of his home. He wondered if the Dragons knew that, if they too sensed the demise of the world as they knew it, and that was they were silent that morning when he reached out, trying to find an answer to the path that lay before him, obscured in a way it had never been before.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Where do we go from here? What do we do, when the world turns it back on the destiny that we have served for so long?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>     There was a warm breeze on his face as he turned it towards the sky for a moment. There were clouds in the distance, a warning of a storm to come. That would be good for the fields, but he couldn’t help but think that it heralded something more, as he let his gaze sweep over the fields, gold and green and glistening under the early morning sunlight. Here he could almost pretend that nothing was changing, that honour and duty meant the same as they always had. Here in the hills, his family, his people were safe, shielded from the changes happening elsewhere. But the storm would reach them eventually, maybe not today, this month, this year, but inevitably it would wash over them, and not even a mountain could remain unchanged forever although it could hold out much longer than most.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>    Taking a deep breath, listening to the cry of birds roused by the sun, and the distant sound of voices as the village woke to a new day, he closed his eyes. Turning inwards. With the ease of long practice, he quietened his thoughts, delving inside himself as the tension flowed from his body. It was quiet in his heart, for all the questions that plagued his waking mind and for a moment, he lingered, savouring the tranquillity, before reaching deeper. Searching for the Dragons, for answers, no matter what they might be.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>   He found himself stepping out under the branches of a distant forest, his feet silent, even as he moved across the leaf dusted floor. He knew this place, and yet at that moment, he felt almost a stranger in his own land, his own mind, something stirring on the periphery of his vision. A rumbling growl that seemed to echo all around him at once. A breeze tugging at his skin, as a banner flickered above him and his eyes darted to it taking in the crest. It wasn’t the Shimada crest. In fact, he didn’t recognise the motif of a white tiger on a black background, and yet it called to him, and he had just reached for it when there was the crash of blades, and the raised voices, the familiar sounds of battle washing over him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>    Instinct had him reaching for weapons that weren’t there, as the ground trembled as mounted warriors rushed by, and he found himself held in place. Unable to do anything but watch, as men in armour and a strange uniform clashed again and again beneath the canopy of the forest. The old and the new colliding, neither side willing to give ground. Is this my fate? To watch from the side-lines. He demanded on the Dragons, barely able to imagine a worse fate. The growl came again, louder and closer this time, as something prowled amongst the warriors.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>   It took a moment for him to see it, twisting as there were a snarl and a pained cry, turning just in time to see a Samurai fall beneath the crushing blow of a tiger’s paw. His breath caught at the sight of the magnificent creature, white fur glistening as it twisted and turned, lashing out with unbridled fury. Untamed. Untameable. Its roar, shaking him down to its very bones, as it turned towards him, their gaze meeting through the haze that filtered amongst the trees. Blue eyes, as bright and all-seeing as the mountain sky met his, and for a moment he could have sworn that he had seen the blue of the Dragons swirling in their depths as the tiger roared again.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>   In the real world, his eyes flew open, and there was the cold weight of certainty in his chest as he gazed out over the deceptively peaceful fields.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Something is coming.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>    Jack Morrison didn’t care about destiny, not anymore. There had been a time before he had known the feel of blood on his hands or the sound of screams that echoed through his mind whether waking or sleeping. And before he has tasted the bitter reality of war, that he had dreamed about a great ‘destiny’. The youngest son, of a struggling farmer, he had signed up to the military at the first opportunity, wanting more than the promise of a hard life, and little rewards, bound within the confines of the fields he had grown up surrounded by. He wanted to see more of the world, to fight, to do something with his life. Deep down, he might have even wanted to be a hero when he’d set off with little to his name but a dream, and his father’s angry voice echoing in his mind.</p><p>    For a time, he had lived the dream. He had always been quick-minded, and he’d soaked up strategy and tactics like a sponge, rising through the ranks, and making a name for himself. A leader. Someone the men had looked up to. A hero in the eyes of the public who didn’t know any better, and for a time he had embraced it, living a lie even though he hadn’t known it.</p><p>
  <em>“What are you going to do after the war?” Gabriel had been the first one to ask him that, but then the other man had always had one eye on the future. He had been there with Jack from the start, rising with him, matching Jack’s mind with his own, and bringing his patience to bear on Jack’s impatience. They had been a good team, never doubting that the other man had their back, but they had been like chalk and cheese with what they had wanted from life.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>    Gabriel had signed up to protect his family, the growing skirmishes encroaching on the town were his mother and sisters lived. He hadn’t wanted glory or adventure, just to protect that which was dearest to him, and then to go home and return to the life that he’d lived before. At times Jack had envied him for that simple purpose, that dream that promised so much more because if he was honest, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do once the war was over. When there was no more need for a man like him, and it scared him, not that he would have ever admitted it aloud. Giving some asinine answer that he couldn’t even remember anymore and changing the subject.</em>
</p><p>    At the time, it hadn’t seemed important. There always another enemy, another battle to be fought and won, and maybe if he had allowed himself to think about it a little more, he would have realised that he no longer knew what they were fighting for. What he was fighting for. It was Gabriel, always looking at the world as a whole rather than their narrow view of it, who wanted nothing more than for the fighting to end so that he could return home, who had first questioned it. <em>Why are we fighting these people?</em> The threat he argued was gone, and even then, still wrapped up in his dreams of glory and his certainty that he was following the right path in the military, Jack hadn’t been able to answer.</p><p>Was it stupidity, naivety or willful blindness that had stopped him from realising before it was too late?</p><p>    Even now, months later, he wasn’t sure that he had the answer to that question. All he knew was that he had been wrong, that while he might have found glory, the medal stashed away deep amongst his belongings proclaiming to the world that he was a ‘war hero’. An honoured murderer in all but name, he thought with a scowl, reaching for his flask, fingers trembling as he fumbled with the cap for a moment. The whisky burning as he downed it, but not as not much as the bitterness, the anger… the guilt. Not enough to silence the screams that echoed through his mind, his thoughts inevitably drifting back to the ‘battle’ that had brought his delusions crashing down around his ears.</p><p>
  <em>There aren’t soldiers.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>    Too late that realisation had settled in as he led the charge through the camp, sword already bloodied, and a war cry dying on his lips, as men, women and children scattered. Some had grabbed weapons, but it barely took a glance to realise that most were improvised and the few that weren’t were poorly kept, and no match for the force assaulting them. These are soldiers. They’re people. He’d faltered then, ignoring a barked order as he lowered his sword.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>What are we doing here?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>What am I doing?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>    He looked at the soldiers around him, the men that had come to be a family of sorts. People he had spent nearly every living moment with for the last few months, he knew their names, their hopes and dreams, and where they had come from. Yet, at that moment he realised that he didn’t know them at all. Unable to find a single point of familiarity in the faces that were twisted with bloodlust, mouths that could laugh and smile so easily in camp, contorted in snarls as they yelled threats and cries of triumph as what little resistance there had been melted away before them. They were supreme in their belief that this was the enemy, that they were protecting their country, and in that moment of realisation, Jack knew that he was on the opposite side of an invisible line.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>This isn’t what I wanted…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>    Another roar, this one much closer broke into his spiralling thoughts, and he wheeled his horse around too late, eyes widening as he saw the man leaping for him. Grief fuelled fury in the dark eyes that met his for a moment, and Jack couldn’t bring himself to lift his weapon at that moment, not even to defend himself, and instead, he braced himself. Waiting for the impact, the fall… the pain. At the last moment, someone hurtled into the path of his attack, and Jack’s mount reacted with a shrill neigh as it reared and bucked, pulling away. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>    He caught a fleeting glimpse of Gabriel rolling to his feet to engage his attacker as the horse spun around, and then he lost track of them, struggling to rein in his horse. By the time he’d regained control of his mount, he had lost sight of them, and the horns were already blowing to indicate their victory – as though there could ever have been any doubts about the outcome of this fight, he thought bitterly. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>    Somehow, he remembered his role in this mess, barking orders for the men to line up, trying not to look at their bloodied weapons and uniforms, or their faces that had lost the bloodlust but were still the faces of strangers. He felt numb, as though he was a step of sync with the world, as he looked around for Gabriel, hoping that he at least would be the same, needed that point of familiarity to stop himself being crushed beneath the weight of this new realisation.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Gabriel wasn’t there.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>    He wasn’t lining up with the soldiers, either those who had retained their mounts or those who were on foot now. Where is he? Jack brought his horse around, ignoring the others and the questions about his strange behaviour, scanning the camp as he moved through burning tents and scattered bodies, unable to avoid the horror of what they had done. What he had done. These people weren’t our enemies, he thought, tasting bile as his gaze lingered a little too long on the still figure of a woman who had fallen trying to protect the small form partially hidden under her body, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>What have I…?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>    A flicker of movement caught his attention and instinct had him lifting his weapon in preparation, before his arm fell, useless at his side.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Gabriel…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>    He didn’t remember sheathing it or dismounting, but he knew that he must’ve because he found himself tripping over a sprawled arm and churned earth moments later, before falling to his knees beside Gabriel. A noise that could have been the other man’s name, or a sob rising in the back of his throat, as he took in the blood staining the other man’s front, and the hands pressed almost desperately the worst of the wounds, trying to hold his guts inside. A fatal wound. One that Jack himself had inflicted on far too many people in the past, and it took everything he had not to vomit, as Gabriel seemed to sense his presence, eyes flickering open.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>   The look in his eyes was one that Jack had seen too many times. Fear and pain and an inevitable acceptance. “You’re going to be all right.” The lie slipped out before he could stop it, a desperate, futile attempt to offer comfort, and he was shocked when Gabriel gasped a laugh, blood bubbling up in the corner of his mind. “Gabe…”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“…terrible…liar,” Gabriel whispered, the words garbled and breathy.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m not lying,” Jack ground out, lifting his head and calling for a medic even as he added his own hands to Gabriel’s, trying to stem the bleeding. “You’re going to live and get back to your family, and maybe finally do something about that girl you were telling me about.” You’re going to have the future you always dreamed about, he thought, blinking furious tears out of his eyes. The fight to stop them falling, lost a moment later when Gabriel curled bloody fingers around his and shook his head.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“It’s your turn…” He trailed off, breath hitching as he coughed, blood splattering his lips, and Jack could see him slipping away. “…find…a future…” Sheer stubbornness forced the words out as Gabriel’s eyes closed, fingers falling away, and Jack couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think, even when he was finally eased aside when help arrived too late, a roaring sound in his ears that couldn’t drown out the apologetic words as the medics told him what he already knew.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Gabriel was gone.</em>
</p><p>    He gulped down another mouthful of whisky, trying to chase the images away with the burn of the alcohol, or at least to dim them. It rarely worked these days, and yet still he tried, drinking himself away to try and escape, and trying to silence the small voice that told him that this wasn’t the future that Gabriel would have wanted for him.</p><p>Future.</p><p>    The fighting had ended that day, as though in mockery of Gabriel’s hopes and dreams, his life bleeding out on the grass when freedom and home had been within reach. Jack had been numb through most of it. He knew that he should count himself lucky that he hadn’t been pulled up for his actions, or lack thereof during the fighting. Instead, in the wake of the battle and to keep the public on side, he had been declared a hero. Honoured. Praised. Lies and truth blurring, until he no longer knew what he was, just that the weight of the medal on his chest had been almost enough to send him to his knees, and each speech, congratulations and thank you, had left him sick to his stomach. But he hadn’t known what else to do.</p><p>    He’d never had hopes and dreams beyond the war, no future laying in front of him, no home to go back to, and even with Gabriel’s final plea echoing in his mind he had been lost. <em>It should have been me. </em>He wasn’t sure when that thought had first crept in amongst everything else. Maybe it had been at Gabriel’s funeral, where he had stood at the back and finally set eyes on the family that he had heard so much about, their grief too much for him to bear and he had fled as the first earth had landed on the casket, unable to face them. A coward. That had been the first time he’d got drunk enough to chase all thoughts from his mind, leaving him to wake up, hungover and sick to his stomach, and desperate to find that emptiness again.</p><p>    Or, maybe it had been the third morning in a row that he had woken surrounded by bottles, not sure where he was and stinking alcohol. <em>It should have been me. </em>He’d smashed them all in a fit of fury, at Gabriel for asking so much of him, for choosing to save him when he must’ve known that Jack had no future waiting for him, no dream beyond the fighting, and at himself for being unable to make use of the gift the other man had given him.</p><p>    It had been there, a weight in the back of his mind when his superiors had reached out for him. If they knew about his drinking, about the fights he couldn’t remember getting into but had been told about later, it didn’t show. It was clear that they knew he had nothing beyond the military, and with the public, blind to the truth of what he had done, what he was, still singing his praises they had offered him a future. <em>A future,</em> he snorted and took another mouthful of whisky before fastening the flask and slipping it away, as he heard voices beginning to chant his name in the hall beyond his current sanctuary.</p><p>A future as a dancing monkey.</p><p>A charlatan.</p><p>    The public face of a military that needed funding and support, that his reputation and face could bring them, and he had agreed to it. Numb. Hungover. Lost. He had stood there and nodded, impassive as they told him he would be selling stocks and weapons, that he would be the embodiment of the glory of fighting for his country. He had nodded, and smiled and shook hands, even as he had felt sick to his stomach, knowing that he was betraying Gabriel.</p><p>That he was betraying the realisation that had stopped him dead in that final battle.</p><p>That he was betraying himself.</p><p>
  <em>Liar. Fraud. Coward.</em>
</p><p>    Some days he wondered if the public’s reaction if they ever found out what he really was could ever be worse than his own thoughts. Sometimes, he had been tempted to test it. To stand out there on whichever stage he had been forced on, and tell them precisely what they were buying, what they were sending their husbands, brothers, sons and more off to. To be seen for what he was. Yet, as soon as he found himself in front of the crowd, watched by the eyes of the world his resolve would fail, and he would tow the company line, lying and dying a little more with each word that left his mouth.</p><p> <em>I’m so sorry, Gabriel.</em></p><p>“…Captain JACK MORRISON!” He heard the announcer shout, and he realised that he must have missed his cue at least once, hearing the irritation in the man’s voice, and yet when he got up to answer the call, he found himself unable to move.</p><p>
  <em>I don’t want to do this.</em>
</p><p>   His name was called again, and again. He could hear the crowd getting restless, impatient for the show they had been promised. <em>This isn’t the future I wanted, </em>he could admit as much to himself, even if he didn’t have a clue what he wanted to do, and he still couldn’t move. He couldn’t bear the thought of stepping on that stage again, of lying and lying, until everything tasted like ashes and all he could hear was Gabriel’s last words mingled with the screams of that terrible day.</p><p>    Footsteps broke into his frantic, swirling thoughts, and he looked up just as his ‘handler’ marched into the room. Jesse McCree had leapt at the chance of getting a ‘war hero’ onboard after weeks and months of a rather fruitless campaign, and in the beginning, he had been tolerant of Jack’s mood swings and drinking. That patience had been gradually drying up, and Jack knew that he hadn’t helped, and it seemed as though the other man had run out of patience as he marched up to Jack. “Get out on that stage,” he ordered, in a voice that would have many men leaping to attention and falling over themselves to please him. Jack just blinked at him, impassive in the face of his rage. “This is your last show. I don’t care what your superiors or mine say, you’re done. Fired!”</p><p>
  <em>Free.</em>
</p><p>      Jack didn’t argue, just nodded and staggered to his feet. Maybe he’d had a bit more to drink than he’d intended, he realised, waiting for the world to settle before heading for the stage, ignoring McCree’s snort of disgust and muttered curse, as he grabbed hold of the rifle he was supposed to be selling to the gullible people in the crowd. The weight of it in his hands, bringing back far too many memories, and it took everything he had not to toss it away.</p><p>
  <em>One last show.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>One last chance to tell the truth…</em>
</p><p>     He stepped onto the stage, flinching as cheering and applause immediately broke out at the sight of him, eyes darting out across the crowd. Men, women and children of all ages looking back at him. <em>These people aren’t the enemy,</em> he thought, hands clenching around the rifle as he lifted it, falling into the first step of his act and faltering.</p><p>He couldn’t do it, not this time…</p><p>     The gunshot startled him, as much as it terrified the crowd, screams breaking out as they glanced between the hole in the banner hanging across the middle of the hall, the smoke rising from the tip of the barrel, and the man they probably thought had lost his mind. Maybe he had, a feverish heat having seemed to take root beneath his skin as he straightened, keeping the weapon levelled, although he had enough presence of mind not to aim it at someone.</p><p>“I was brought here today to tell you about this weapon.” He shouted, raising the gun a little, triggering another round of cries and shouts. “I am supposed to stand here and tell you this weapon won us the war, and that by buying these stocks, you will be supporting the military. Making sure that we can win the next war. I am not going to tell you any of that, because that is a lie…” There was a scuffling noise beside him, and he could hear McCree and a couple of other people he didn’t recognise rushing towards him, trying to silence him, and there was a roaring sound in his ears. “All of this is a lie. We fought to protect you,” he admitted, thinking of Gabriel with a pang. “But there was no honour and glory. We fought, we died, and the fighting continued even when it didn’t need to because there is power in war and money, and why settle for ‘enough’ when you can have more? Because that is what they are selling you Ladies and Gentlemen, more fighting, more war and more death!”</p><p>**</p><p>    Jack tilted his head back, the shot a burst of liquid fire against the back of his throat before he set the glass against the half-dozen already lying on the counter, gesturing for the barkeep to top him up. He had been brought to the ground by McCree and his assistants. The rifle wrenched from his grasp and his arm twisted behind his back before being hauled away. He would feel that tomorrow, or maybe it would be lost beneath the ache of the hangover he was working his way towards. He didn’t really care. He had done it, he had finally spoken the truth. Although he had to wonder whether anyone would actually hear his words, as he’d already heard McCree soothing ruffled feathers, apologising and making excuses for the Captain who had endured too much, he could imagine the headlines. <em>‘War hero loses his mind’. </em>Lies and disinformation, anything to stop his words finding purchase. It was infuriating, but at least he had spoken up. At least for once, he hadn’t been a coward.</p><p>
  <em>So, why do I still feel like a failure?</em>
</p><p>    He was fired. He was jobless, drifting, and without his accommodation being provided, he had nowhere to call home. <em>It should’ve been me. </em>Any relief he’d felt from speaking out was draining away, leaving him exhausted and hollow, once again without a future to his name, and all he could see when he closed his eyes and downed the next shot was Gabriel’s eyes closing. <em>It should…</em></p><p>“Jack! There you are!” A large hand clapped his shoulder, spilling his drink down his front, and he cursed before turning towards the newcomer, blinking as Reinhardt Wilhelm beamed down at him. “I have been looking everywhere for you, old friend.” Reinhardt was one of the only ones from his old regiment that he had kept in loose contact with. They had always got on well, and he had been a lot like Gabriel in how he had seen the fighting, and his future, and he had shared Jack’s grief at the loss of their shared friend. “I heard about the show…?” There was a questioning note in that last bit, his smile dimming a little as he slipped into the seat beside Jack, the poor stool creaking in protest although Reinhardt didn’t seem to notice as his attention was riveted on the glasses lined up in front of Jack, frowning a little.</p><p>“I was fired,” Jack replied after a moment. “Decided that I might as well go out with a bang, and it's not as though I lied,” he was unable to resist adding, knowing that the other man would have found out everything he could before tracking him down.</p><p>“No,” Reinhardt admitted. “But, there’s a time and place for saying things like that, and I don’t think they’re too happy with your right now.”</p><p>“What are they going to do, court-martial me? We both know they won’t do that.” Honestly, Jack wasn’t entirely sure about that. Although he had a feeling, they wouldn’t want to risk giving him another stage to speak on, and there was a bit of malicious amusement at that thought as he gestured for another refill and one for his companion too.</p><p>“Jack…” Reinhardt trailed off as the drinks arrived, and Jack downed his while waiting for the other man to gather his thoughts, eyeing the shot when Reinhardt didn’t immediately take. Seeing his gaze, Reinhardt took it and downed it with a grimace, he had always preferred beer to whisky and had spent many a night debating the finer arts of brewing with Gabriel. “I was looking for you because a job opportunity has come up, one that I think would be good for both us,” Reinhardt said finally.</p><p>“Not interested.”</p><p>“It’s another adventure Jack,” Reinhardt continued, unfazed by his flat refusal, but then again, he had rarely been daunted by anything.  “No more of this…” He waved a hand at the bar, and the sideways glances they were receiving, no doubt rumours of Jack’s ‘meltdown’ having followed him. “And maybe a bit less of that,” he lowered his voice at least for the last bit, gesturing at the flask that was just visible in Jack’s pocket and the row of glasses on the bar in front of him.</p><p>    Jack wanted to snarl at him, to tell him that he would drink too if he had seen and done what he had done, but the words caught in his throat. Reinhardt had seen his fair share of the what the ‘war’ had really been about, it was there in the eyes that were more shadowed than they had been, and the way that his voice had softened at the end, not pitying or judging, just a simple statement of fact and a plea for Jack to come back to himself. <em>He understands. </em>Maybe not all of it, but enough. And there was a hope in his expression as he looked at Jack that reminded him of how Gabriel had always looked when talking about his home and family, and with a sigh, he turned to look at him.</p><p>“What is this job?”</p>
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